It was a little over a year ago, and I had fallen, hard, I had https://www.theodysseyonline.com/year-after-attempted-suicideattempted suicide. I was in a psychiatric ward, I had just gotten out of the ICU, I was awaiting court on Monday to find out how long I would have to stay in the hospital. Everyone was nervous around me, I felt sad and shattered...

I don't want to talk about that in this article though, so instead I'm going to talk about pens. Pens for a long time have been one of my favorite office supplies, and I get ethereally excited when I can find a pen that fits in my hand perfectly, writes smoothly, and has a nice "click". My (kind of) obsession with this particular office supply started pretty young, and I would get joy out of standing as a little girl in front of all the very different pens. It felt important and special, and I always loved how each one was an individual. I liked how for such a simple thing, there was so many variations. And of course, as an artist and tactile learner, I have always loved writing, drawing, taking notes, doodling in the margins of my notebook etc. all with that perfect pen.

Pens are sort of a big deal.

....so I was sitting in the small visitation room saying goodbye to my brother and meeting my social worker and I had to sign the papers to get me in and to allow treatment. Its standard procedure, and so my social worker handed me what the hospital would define as a pen. I later learned these particular pens were called the "No-Shank super flex pen" and the name does it justice.

This pen was a pathetic excuse for a pen. The tubing was super flexible, it didn't stay straight in your hand, the pen tip would go into the tube if you pressed or drew too hard, and they were about 3 inches tall. It was horrible and hard to use, and i noticed that right away when I was signing those papers.

And it was the thing that finally broke me.

Up until that time, I hadn't been able to comprehend just how far I had fallen, I was still trying to pretend everything was okay or "all good" and I was lying to myself. I tried to disassociate from the reality of what was happening, and I was just numb to the situation. This was a reminder of how far down I was... I couldn't even be trusted with a real pen. "This must be rock bottom", I thought.

I was in the hospital for 17 days, and throughout that time I had to use the pens for many things, and every single time they made me upset. They made me angrier than I already was at the situation. Every visitor that would come to see me I would remind about how horrible the pens were. It seems so small, but it was such a big deal to me because I couldn't write or draw without the pen wobbling or getting pushed through.

At the end of my stay, I had a family meeting with my mom and social worker, I was all packed up, and getting ready to leave. My social worker handed me papers to sign, and she gave me her pen. A normal pen. A pen with ink, a spring, a plastic outside. I signed the papers, and ever-so-politely asked if I could keep her pen. After explaining the metaphorical significance behind it and offering a trade, she obliged.

You see, I was knocked down, and I was at rock bottom, and I couldn't be trusted with normal pens. So this pen was so much more than a pen. It was a step - the first step - toward recovery. It was the first tangible sign of progress that I was given. It was the first step of a long process that I am still not finished with yet, but I am on my way.

Since that day I have made a lot of steps, and some steps backward. I have had highs and lows, and I have almost exclusively only used that pen. I have kept it with me at all times, tracked it down when one person liked it and tried to subtly keep it, I even went to the store and bought the same pens just to replace the ink in the one that I was given. I have done this because every time I used it, it reminded me to trust in the process, and it reminded me of how far I have come.

Not long ago, I realized that I didn't need the pen to show me progress anymore, and so I gave it away to a very good friend of mine whom enjoys metaphors and has recently started her own journey with counseling and recovery (but not before taking a picture of it). I was reminded of the significance of my noticing progress, and I wanted to share this process.